The Calling
by DSieya
Summary: Remus Lupin is shocked to find Albus Dumbledore in his kitchen. post cos, oneshot


**author's note**: WOW i haven't posted anything since early october. i've really been out of it. anyhow. i've always wondered about this moment, so i decided to write it. most definitely not my best, but i'm trying to get myself back into gear. :) (hard to write dumbledore, hard to write remus, and harder to write them in the same room as each other! -dies-)

* * *

"Hello, Remus."

The man halted, then did a double-take.

Albus Dumbledore was sitting in his kitchen.

"Professor Dumbledore?"

"Please, call me Albus. You are no longer my student, after all."

Remus approached the kitchen table, warily, and after a moment another chair scraped across the dingy floor as he sat down.

Dumbledore was surveying the kitchen with keen interest: the blinds on the small window, that further blocked what little sunlight filtered in; the humming refrigerator; the tacky design of the linoleum; the small counters and smaller table.

"May I ask about the occasion?" the younger man finally asked.

This seemed to momentarily startle Dumbledore out of his examination of the kitchen. There was a pause as he looked at Remus with his crystal blue eyes.

"I'm sure you've seen the day's news."

Remus felt his stomach drop and twist, and automatically glanced over towards the door that led to his bedroom, where the _Daily Prophet_ lay.

With a heavy sigh, he pulled himself up from his chair, then made his way to a cabinet. "Brandy?" he asked, pulling out a bottle and two glasses.

Dumbledore seemed to take that as an affirmative answer.

"I talked to Andromeda this morning," he said as Remus set down the glasses on the table.

"How is Andromeda?" Lupin replied, still thinking of the _Prophet_ in his bedroom.

"Wonderful. She volunteers at St. Mungo's every day. Apparently, Nymphadora is finishing off her Auror training this year."

"Hmm." It had been a long while since he's seen that family. Actually, a long while since he had seen really anyone from the Wizarding world. "Are you here to talk about the news?"

"That's part of my reason, yes. Another part is wanting to check up on your health—I imagine it must have been upsetting."

Remus' hand was trembling as he set down his glass, and he stared at a spot on the table without seeing it. An image flashed past his eyelids, remembering that morning.

He worked as a bagger, in a Muggle grocery store, as he was unable to find magical work due to the new Werewolf Codes—and, without proof of a Muggle education, he was also unable to find good work on the other side of the world. Every day, his shift started at eight o'clock. Every day, he prepared himself tea and breakfast. An owl would fly in through the open window, drop the paper in the sink, and wait for Remus to give him three Knuts from his meager Wizarding savings. This day had started out much the same, except for a headline:

**_BREAKOUT AT AZKABAN_**  
_SIRIUS BLACK AT LARGE_

And then, as they say it, all had gone to hell.

"Yes," Remus finally answered. "Yes. It most definitely wasn't my best day. It wasn't my worst—" _That was reserved for November 1__st__, 1981._ "—but…"

He trailed off, looking into the bottom of his empty glass. He watched through the eyes of an impartial observer as his knuckles grew white on the glass and the glass shattered. The hum on the refrigerator stopped for a moment, and the lights flickered almost imperceptibly. Blood on his hand.

With a flick of Dumbledore's wand, the cuts were gone, the glass repaired, and more brandy was in the cup.

"Remus."

The voice had a calming effect, and Remus raised his head to meet the grave blue eyes of Albus Dumbledore. He felt the muscles in his back and neck relax, and he slumped in his chair.

"I have one question before I get to one of my major reasons for being here."

Remus nodded, not trusting himself to speak, for he knew that he would sound like a toad if he did so.

"Will Black try to contact you in any way? Will he try to find an avenue to communicate?"

Remus, for a split second, pondered how "Sirius" and "Black" were two almost completely different people in his mind—Sirius was the laughing, joking boy at school, and Black was the laughing madman. But, in reality, he supposed they have always been one and the same.

"I would think he knows better than that."

Even as he said it, Remus was hoping that Black—Sirius?—_didn't_ know better. If he ever came calling… well, Remus knew that he would kill the traitor right back.

Dumbledore seemed satisfied with the answer, as if he knew the implications in Remus' statement.

"Then I have to offer you a job."

His head, which had been staring at the his knees, shot back up. Was Dumbledore joking?

"A—a job? Professor, with all due respect…"

"You are the most qualified for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position—clearly more than your predecessor. I remember an 'Outstanding' N.E.W.T.?"

"I—but, with my, er—"—_furry little problem_—"—condition—how can you—"

"Of course, precautions would be taken. I'm sure the Wolfsbane would be a useful brew."

Remus gaped at him.

Sensing his persevering hesitation, Dumbledore leaned forward, looking very sad and very hopeful at the same time.

"I think you know Sirius' goals, Remus."

_Harry Potter_.

Remus closed his mouth. This boy, to whom it all boiled down—the boy who was like a nephew, even if Remus had not laid eyes on him in twelve years. Who lost his father, his mother, Peter…

… who lost them to Sirius Black.

_Where your abilities and society's needs meet, therein lies your profession._

"Yes. Yes, I'll take it," he answered.

**THE END**


End file.
